The Duchess of Drury Lane

By Freda Lightfoot

Passion, jealousy, and scandal abound in this regency romance based on the real-life rags-to-riches story of British actress Dora Jordan.
 
Having grown up poor and fatherless in Ireland, Dorothy Jordan is determined to overcome her humble beginnings and become the most famous comic actress of her day. While performing on London’s Drury Lane, Dora catches the eye of the Duke of Clarence, the man who would become King William IV.
 
Beginning a romance that will endure for twenty years—and produce ten children—Dora experiences great happiness with the Duke. But ultimately, Dora’s generous nature becomes her undoing. Betrayed by the man she loves, Dora is faced with the harsh reality that life rarely resembles the happily-ever-afters of the plays she performs.
 
An extraordinary woman born into extraordinary times, Dora Jordan’s story is one of great passion and even greater pain. In The Duchess of Drury Lane, Freda Lightfoot reveals the true story of the rise and fall of an actress who captured the heart of a king.
 
“With a host of fleshed out characters, this fast-paced, biographical novel is pleasure to read and a great addition to historical fiction centered on royal personages.” —Historical Novel Society

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Mar 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781780103679

Freda Lightfoot

Sunday Times bestselling author Freda Lightfoot hails from Oswaldtwistle, a small mill town in Lancashire. Her mother comes from generations of weavers, and her father was a shoe repairer; she still remembers the first pair of clogs he made for her. After several years of teaching, Freda opened a bookshop in Kendal, Cumbria. And while living in the rural Lakeland Fells, rearing sheep and hens and making jam, Freda turned to writing. She wrote over fifty articles and short stories for magazines such as My Weekly and Woman’s Realm, before finding her vocation as a novelist. She has since written over forty-five novels, mostly historical fiction and family sagas. She now lives in Spain with her own olive grove, and divides her time between sunny winters and the summer rains of Britain.

Book preview

Prologue

‘. . . the return of an old friend’

1816

The winter sunshine is too weak to take the chill from my bones or ease my cough as I sit gazing out upon two dreary cypress trees. Nor does it lighten the gloom of these shabby rooms. Saint Cloud is proving to be as much a disappointment to me as was Marquetra or Versailles. The rooms at our lodging house are cold and bare, with but a few pieces of old furniture, nowhere comfortable to sit apart from the small couch upon which I recline. Not that my surroundings trouble me greatly, since what house could possibly compare with my lovely Bushy? My thoughts, as always these days, are with my darling children. I ache for a letter from Lucy telling me how her latest pregnancy is progressing, from dear deluded Dodee or even foolish Fanny. And from my boys of course. If I can depend on nothing more, I can be certain of the love of my children. They will ever sustain me.

But yet there is no post again today, and I worry over why that is.

‘Has Frederick visited you recently?’ my visitor asks, as if reading my thoughts.

I sit up a little and talk of the last time I dined with my son only a week ago, which always cheers me. ‘His regiment is not to remain in Paris long, but may move on to Cambrai soon. Should that happen, then I shall follow, if my health permits. Paris is an odious place and I shall not be sorry to leave it. George and Henry write to me of the wonders of India. Lolly is at sea and Tuss at school. And my darling girls . . .’ I pause, not wishing to admit why it is so difficult for them to visit their mother, that their father in fact forbids it.

‘They are too young for travel, I should think,’ she agrees.

‘Quite.’

‘But as a widow, Madame, you surely need your family about you at this sad time.’

I inwardly smile at her artless questions, well aware it is the natural curiosity of a newspaper reporter, as much as friendship, that inspires them. My dear Sketchley has painted me as a grieving widow. This masquerade she has created is as a Madame James who was supposedly married to a businessman, now deceased. It suits me to play this role, and am I not adept at acting a part? But I welcome all visitors, usually fans who have guessed the truth of my identity. They often call at Number One rue d’Angoulême and I am happy to see them, including Miss Helen Maria Williams, for all I have reservations about her motives.

‘You speak true. It is not, believe me,’ I say, ‘feelings of pride, avarice, or the absence of those comforts I have all my life been accustomed to, that is killing me by inches. It is the loss of my only remaining comfort, the hope from time to time to see my children.’

‘I’m sure your daughter will visit, once the baby is born, and your other sons when they return from active duty.’

‘Another frustration,’ I tell my sympathetic listener, ‘is based upon my inactivity. I have never been one to lie about doing nothing,’ and I return my gaze to the dank, overgrown garden, far too tired and sickly to venture out.

‘Have you done any writing lately?’ she gently asks, silently acknowledging my solitude. ‘It is ever a comfort to set down one’s thoughts, I find. Perhaps it may cheer you if I read you my own latest effort. I would welcome your critical opinion.’

‘That would be delightful.’

Poetry is an interest we share, since we are of an age, and each with a past filled with emotion and nostalgia. Our chat about poetry is often interspersed with tales of Napoleon, a favourite topic of conversation as Miss Williams’ politics are somewhat militant. Even now she is relating some anecdote of the revolution. I respond as best I can, understanding little of what she says, but glad enough of her company, the presence of another human being in my empty life.

I listen to her poem, making one or two comments, mainly of praise since I do not care to risk damaging any artist’s sensibilities. Have I not personally suffered at the hands of my peers whose opinions were warped by jealousy, or have whipped up animosity in an audience for the same reason? ‘Thank you, I enjoyed that. You have a natural way with words, and I have a gift for you too.’ I reach for a small volume set ready on my side table and hand it to her. ‘Miss Sketchley kindly arranged for my collection of poems to be printed. I thought you might care to have a copy.’

Miss Williams takes the book from me, eyes shining. ‘Oh, how very kind of you, Dora.’

I wince slightly at the use of my first name, not something I have encouraged while in France, but after several visits perhaps we may be called friends now. I am, of course, aware that my charade has not fooled this woman. She knows full well who I am, and no doubt how I came to be in these dire straits. What she does not know is that I have known poverty before, and view it rather as the return of an old friend, not exactly welcome but most certainly familiar. And Miss Sketchley’s recent visit to London did not bring the news I had hoped for. Barton promised to help but seems to be having little success thus far.

‘Do you intend to stay in France long, Madame?’

‘Only until my health improves,’ I assure her. ‘My dear Sketchley fusses over me like a mother hen but I hope to return to the stage soon. Acting is my life, you understand.’ I go on to speak warmly of the leading men I’ve worked with: John Bannister and John Kemble, to name but two. The former being very much my favourite as the latter has caused me no end of trouble, as did his sister, Mrs Siddons, in her day.

‘You must indeed miss it, having enjoyed such a long and successful career.’

‘I was most fortunate.’

‘Did you always wish to be an actress?’

I give a soft laugh. ‘Not at all. I was something of a tomboy, more interested in climbing and boasting to my brothers that I could jump higher down the stairs than they dared even try. Acting never occurred to me. I left that ambition to my sister Hester. I was perfectly happy working in a hat shop, but then tragedy struck our little family and our lives changed for ever.’

She edges forward in her chair. ‘So how did it all come about? Do you remember the first time you ever stepped on to a stage?’

‘Oh, indeed, I remember it only too well. I was absolutely terrified.’

One

‘A most valuable acquisition . . .’

Spring 1778

How could I ever forget that night? My debut leading role was to be in Henry Fielding’s farce The Virgin Unmasked at Crow Street Theatre in Dublin, for which, if successful, I was to be engaged at the princely sum of twenty shillings a week. I stood frozen with fear in the wings, listening to the chatter, laughter and ribald jokes of the audience just a few feet away, growing increasingly impatient with the delay. The pit was crowded with young bucks, no females allowed, and beyond that was the two-shilling gallery. While up in the boxes, or lattices as they were called, sat the toffs in full evening dress. They had paid twice that sum and meant to savour their superiority by looking with disdain through their opera glasses down upon everyone else. And above all of them came the one-shilling gallery and the slips. Hundreds of people all gawping at the stage where I was about to make a complete fool of myself. I was scared stiff, utterly petrified.

‘Get on with it!’ I heard a voice cry. ‘Where’s the farce?’

‘Aye, come on, we’re eager to get an eyeful of the new gel,’ yelled another, followed by yet more jeering laughter.

I turned on my heels and fled.

‘Dolly, Dolly, don’t go!’ I could hear Mama calling to me, but ignoring her I hitched up my skirts and ran pell-mell to the women’s dressing room. My one desire was to escape what I saw as a baying pack of wolves out for my blood. I huddled shivering in a corner, feeling sick to my stomach, knowing in my heart that it was hopeless, that I couldn’t do it. I simply could not walk out on to that stage.

I doubt I would ever have been an actress had not my mother chosen to tread the boards before me. As a profession the stage is both insecure and unsettled, as actors are constantly on the move. Actresses are also the subject of public disapproval since they’re generally considered to be disreputable and immoral. Yet my own mother suggested just such a career for me, a girl of only sixteen.

I had vehemently protested. ‘Hester is the one who wants to act, not me. Why can I not continue to work as a milliner’s assistant? I hope to be allowed to learn the art of hat making myself soon.’

‘Hester has tried, and found herself too beset with stage fright, so Mr Ryder has generously offered you a trial. You will earn far more on stage than you ever would in a hat shop.’

Under her maiden name of Grace Phillips, Mama had set out as a young girl with her sister Maria for Dublin, both intent on becoming actresses. That was back in the 1750s when strolling players visited every town, and the two girls had often enjoyed being taken to the theatre in Bristol. So for some reason they’d fallen in love with the notion.

Their father, a rector in Haverfordwest in Pembrokeshire, South Wales, had died when they were quite young and the family was largely brought up by a married cousin. But despite an education of the highest quality, far more so than my own, and coming from a respectable family of means, the stage was all Mama had ever dreamed of.

Why the Phillips sisters chose Dublin, I do not know, but the Smock Alley Theatre was under the management of Thomas Sheridan, a famous impresario at the time. Mama loved to tell stories of her years at Smock Alley, how she played Juliet to Sheridan’s Romeo, but then one day he returned to London and the theatre closed down. Having little choice in the matter, Grace and Aunt Maria likewise moved to England, but sadly never starred on the London stage or realized their ambition of fame and fortune. They spent almost their entire working lives touring the provinces, until Mama finally gave up acting for motherhood. Despite seeing myself as Irish, I was in fact born in London near Covent Garden in 1761, no doubt where my stage-struck parents were seeking work at the time, and where I was baptized Dorothy Bland. Our dear King George III had only recently come to the throne so a whole new era had begun.

‘Why do you not return to the stage, Mama?’ I suggested. ‘Since you love it so much.’

‘Don’t be foolish, Dolly. I am far too old to play pretty parts now. And who would care for your siblings if I were not around? James is working hard but will have his own family to keep soon. Francis wishes to join the army, and George will do his bit, for all he is young. Hester may try again with small parts, but you can sing and are an excellent mimic. You are now our best hope to provide for the family.’

‘But I wouldn’t dare go up on stage, I swear I couldn’t do it,’ I cried.

‘Yes you could,’ my sister Hester protested. ‘You have me crying with laughter by your antics, you do really, Doll.’

Mama’s expression had remained implacable, her face tight with suppressed emotion. She’d been this way ever since Papa had left her. My father, Francis Bland, an affectionate and well-meaning man but clearly weak, had abandoned us, his beloved family, some years before when I was but thirteen. My darling Mama had never recovered from the shock. Theirs had been a love match and she had believed in him utterly.

Papa was a captain in the army, until he took up his wife’s profession, but his family, being gentry, considered that he had married beneath him. Mama never spoke of that time, but I believe that as the lovers had been underage, his father had the marriage annulled. Despite this setback my parents stayed together for sixteen years, living largely in Ireland, long enough to produce several children To all outward appearances they were a devoted couple, although they never troubled to legitimize the marriage by going through a second ceremony.

Following his departure Papa moved to London to marry an Irish heiress, no less, perhaps at the behest of his family. Our situation as a consequence grew ever more precarious. We stayed with Cousin Blanche in Wales for a while before returning to Dublin and taking lodgings in South Great George Street. But then came the worst news of all. Papa’s health had broken down and having set out for France to recuperate, he sadly died at Dover.

If we had been poor before, we were now penurious as the small allowance he’d paid us, his first family, had stopped.

‘Perhaps Papa has left you a small inheritance,’ I’d suggested, striving to keep hope alive in my mother’s sorely bruised heart. ‘Have you asked his widow or the Bland family if that is the case?’ Mama had turned her face away from me to busy herself studying a handbill which listed coming productions.

‘I have put in the necessary claim with the Bland family for the sake of my children, but you know full well, Dolly, that I would never demean myself by asking such a question of that woman. I have my pride, if nothing else. We can depend only upon ourselves. Remember that always. But we must eat, and I also need to send money for Lucy’s keep and a physician to attend her.’

My younger sister, Lucy, was causing concern as she too was sickly and was even now being cared for by Blanche. As my mother’s first cousin and one-time surrogate mother, Blanche was ever ready to offer a haven of comfort to us at her home, Trelethyn, near St David’s in South Wales where she lived a quiet, rural life with no children of her own.

But even dear Cousin Blanche could offer us little in the way of financial assistance.

‘Fortunately,’ Mama continued, resolute in her plan, ‘my standing in the theatre means that I carry some weight still in the acting community. It is all arranged as I accepted Mr Ryder’s kind offer on your behalf. You start at Crow Street next week. Now, what shall be your stage name?’

In the face of such family trauma, how could I refuse?

I chose to be named Miss Francis after my father, as Mama insisted Papa’s family would object to my using the Bland family name. Nor had she any desire to cause confusion among the public by the use of Phillips, her own former stage name. But my agony in choosing now seemed irrelevant as I had failed my greatest challenge by refusing even to go on stage.

A hand caught at my arm and gave me a little shake. It was Mr Ryder, the manager, a kind and generous-hearted man who had found me hiding in the dressing room. ‘Dolly, you are going on that stage, if I have to carry you on myself. You know your words. You can act. You will do this. Do you hear me?’

And so I was dragged back and shoved on to the stage, the audience almost ready to riot as they’d long since lost patience with waiting for the farce that normally followed the main play.

For a terrifying moment I stood transfixed, illuminated in that pool of candlelight. Then I took a breath and as I spoke my first tremulous lines the noise died away, the audience sat hushed and expectant before me. In that instant all fear left me. It felt as if it was the most natural place in the world for me to be.

It was like coming home.

I was playing the lead in a farce about arranged marriage, a popular theme. The girl, Lucy, obstinately refused a succession of suitors suggested to her by her rich father, only to finally admit that she’d secretly married a handsome footman. To my surprise I found that I delighted in the role, playing her as pert and cheeky, albeit with an air of pleasing innocence.

When the audience laughed at my antics I felt my heart swell with pride and excitement at this amazing discovery that I could indeed entertain. It was the most wonderful sensation in the world for a plain tomboy such as myself, one slightly short-sighted who was often obliged to carry spectacles on a chain about my neck.

Never considered to be a classic beauty, my nose and chin being somewhat too prominent, yet I was young and fresh-faced, with a cupid’s bow mouth and rosy cheeks. And with dark eyes some men might consider meltingly warm, even alluring. I must have possessed some charms as I had received and rejected one proposal of marriage already, aged fifteen. The press were later to describe me as more agreeable than handsome, not particularly tall but with a neat, elegant figure with interesting embonpoint, which was a polite way of saying I was full-bosomed and shapely. They were not always so generous, as like all actresses I suffered from bad press as well as good.

Fortunately, I had the kind of expressive features that were perfect for this comic role. As was my mop of brown curls, generally a nuisance to control but creating the right comedic look beneath a mob cap.

And the applause I received at the end of my performance felt like a kind of ecstasy, a warmth that flowed through my veins like wine. Utterly intoxicating!

My first appearance on stage at the tender age of sixteen brought about a complete sea change in my attitude. I worked hard in the coming weeks, learning lines, watching how other actors performed, picking up tips and wrinkles. I felt so inadequate that I knew I must learn my craft quickly. Mama, of course, was in her element, I hadn’t seen her in such good spirits in an age. She would sit with a pile of newspapers on her lap and avidly scour them for reviews, pointing out the good ones to me.

‘Listen to this, Dolly, you are described as a most valuable acquisition to the public stock of innocent entertainment. And when Sheridan’s daughter Betsy came to watch you the other day, she said you surpassed what could have been expected. She even claimed that one day you would be a favourite and the first in your line of acting.’

I laughed. ‘I think you exaggerate, Mama, or she does. Stop reading such nonsense.’

‘Don’t be unduly modest, child. All the reviews are good. Read them for yourself, dear.’

I refused absolutely to do so, blushing at the very thought. Throughout my career, reviews, whether good or bad, were anathema to me. I hated them. But I was relieved to see my dear mother content.

I next played the simple-minded shepherdess, Phoebe, in As You Like It, which was great fun. I was also allowed to speak the prologue and epilogue. One was written for me specially in the character of an Irish Volunteer, for which I was required to wear a soldier’s uniform and strut about the stage with sword in hand. The performance always brought shrieks of laughter and loud applause from the young folk of Dublin.

Hester was given a few small parts, and George too was dreaming of an acting career, meanwhile helping out backstage where he could.

My heart was now set upon the theatre. I was finding more fulfilment and happiness in my work than I had ever anticipated, gaining in confidence every week. My mother was right, I did have a natural talent for acting, particularly with comedy, and if I could use it for the betterment of my family, then I would do so, and bring myself pleasure at the same time.

Two

‘A treasure to be nurtured’

Thomas Ryder, our manager, owned both Crow Street and Smock Alley. He constantly complained that times were hard, and was struggling to make both pay. ‘Dublin doesn’t have the capacity for two successful theatres,’ he would moan whenever the moment came to pay our salaries. There was the odd week when we received no pay at all or ‘the ghost refused to walk’, as it was termed in the trade. ‘We need to attract greater audiences, if I could but think how to pull them in,’ he would say, holding his head in his hands in despair.

Mama would fall into a faint if I came home with nothing. ‘And what are we supposed to live on? How am I to buy bread, or send money to Blanche for Lucy? There are doctors to pay, medicine to buy.’ Lucy was failing, and this was a cause of great distress to poor Mama. We had to do all we could to save my little sister, no matter what the cost.

I kissed her soft cheek. ‘Do not fret, dearest Mama, I will find the money for Lucy.’

One of my fellow actors was a Richard Daly. He was tall and rather dashing, an elegant dandy who was always impeccably turned out, ruffled, beribboned and curled, pea-green being his favourite colour. He might even have been classed as handsome were it not for a cast in one eye, which was really rather off-putting when he looked at you. He was a member of the Fire-eaters’ Club and an avid duellist. It was said that his opponents could never be certain whether or not he was focused on them, which was apparently why Daly didn’t have a scratch on him. He generally wore a somewhat battered looking brooch pinned to his chest which was said once to have saved his life by taking the bullet.

I didn’t much care for the fellow myself, as there was an arrogance about him, and a flirtatious insincerity which I did not entirely trust. He was forever under my feet when I came off stage, would lurk in the wings so that I’d be obliged to squeeze past him as he made no effort to move.

‘When will you allow me to take you out to dine, or to walk by the river?’ he would whisper in my ear as I slithered by.

I might have said when I was old and grey and had lost all common sense, but instead I confined myself to a polite smile or a little giggle. He was, after all, an actor of some renown in the company who frequently played the lead, while I was a mere newcomer. He was forever bragging about his time studying at Trinity College, so was undoubtedly a gentleman. Rumour had it that he’d been obliged to turn to the stage having gambled away much of a personal fortune, although his skills in acting were not particularly well thought of. Nevertheless, he would readily dip into his ample pockets to help tide over his fellow cast members, particularly the young ladies of whom he was rather fond, so perhaps there was some good in him, I thought.

Today he offered to help me with my lines.

‘I thank you kindly, sir, but Mama does very well at that task. She was once an actress herself, if you recall.’

‘Ah, but we need to rehearse our love scene. It is vitally important that we get it right.’

I gave him a doubtful look, wary of this offer since I knew his reputation as a skirt-chaser. Yet I was badly in need of a small loan, not only to see us through the week but also for Mama to send money for Lucy’s treatment. ‘Perhaps we could quickly run through it this afternoon, before the evening performance,’ I agreed.

‘Gladly. What a delight you are, Dolly.’

‘Dora. Dolly is the name my family use. My stage name is Dora, or Miss Francis.’

‘Ah!’ His eyes glinted as his gaze roamed over me, allowing it to linger on my breasts as men so often did. ‘Excellent choice, Miss Francis,’ and he flourished a bow as if I were a courtly lady. ‘We will foregather at one o’clock precisely in the props room where we might hope to find some peace and quiet.’

I took my sister Hester with me. ‘Do not,’ I instructed her, ‘on any account leave me alone with this man. I do not trust him an inch.’

‘You’re a fool even to agree to this,’ she said, in her usual scolding way.

Hester had no time for men, a prejudice presumably caused by a neglectful father. And in this instance she may well have been right, as I could see at once that Daly was displeased by her presence. Giving him no time to object I handed Hester the script, announcing that she would act as prompt. ‘Now we can concentrate on the action without worrying about forgetting our lines.’

He frowned at me, but then of a sudden put back his head and laughed out loud. ‘Keep your chaperone if you must, dearest Dora, for now. But I am not fooled by your maidenly blushes. I am fully aware that you find me irresistible.’

‘Shall we begin?’ I said, deliberately cool.

Hester sat in the corner, barely glancing at the script she held in her hand as she watched open-mouthed the ‘love scene’ performed before her eyes. I do not care to recall the number of times he insisted we go through it, far more than was strictly necessary. And on every occasion came ‘the kiss’.

‘No, it still isn’t quite right, you must sink into my arms, lean back when I hold you. Like this.’

‘Like some fainting virgin?’ I caustically remarked.

‘Exactly. Is that not what you are?’ His good eye fixed me with a challenging glint, but I managed to slide from his arms with some of my dignity still intact.

‘I think that’s enough for now, don’t you? I feel confident we know this scene well enough, and I’m in need of a rest before the first performance. Thank you for sparing the time to help me.’ I was invariably polite, although fearful of seeming to encourage him, and pointedly avoided joining in his banter. ‘Before we go, there is just one matter I wish to discuss with you.’ I cast a quick glance across at Hester, who instantly jumped up to start tidying away the props that we’d used, deliberately